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    Manae the Rower: Origins
    Manae the Rower: Origins
    Manae the Rower: Origins
    Ebook204 pages2 hours

    Manae the Rower: Origins

    By Tony Masero

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    With the fall of Carthage, Manae takes up Rome’s offer to serve as a rower on the quinquereme ‘Avis’. After ten years at the oars he is free to quit the ship and sets out to find the only surviving member of the family lost to him during the savage slaughter of the city.
    So begins a journey that cruelly educates the young Manae into the devious snares and deceptions of Rome’s Hispania. Beaten, robbed and imprisoned he escapes to find murder and rape is his only companion as he flees. Not until he meets the beautiful Livia, daughter of a Roman officer, do things begin to change for Manae.
    But Hispania is facing a bloody uprising against the invasive Legions of Rome and the rebellious Celtic tribes are rampaging through the countryside. Manae and Livia must make their way to safety on a perilous journey that leads the Carthaginian into a confrontation with the sins of his past and places his most treasured possessions at risk.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTony Masero
    Release dateJul 12, 2019
    ISBN9780463250501
    Manae the Rower: Origins
    Author

    Tony Masero

    It’s not such a big step from pictures to writing.And that’s how it started out for me. I’ve illustrated more Western book covers than I care to mention and been doing it for a long time. No hardship, I hasten to add, I love the genre and have since a kid, although originally I made my name painting the cover art for other people, now at least, I manage to create covers for my own books.A long-term closet writer, only comparatively recently, with a family grown and the availability of self-publishing have I managed to be able to write and get my stories out there.As I did when illustrating, research counts a lot and has inspired many of my Westerns and Thrillers to have a basis in historical fact or at least weave their tale around the seeds of factual content.Having such a visual background, mostly it’s a matter of describing the pictures I see in my head and translating them to the written page. I guess that’s why one of my early four-star reviewers described the book like a ‘Western movie, fast paced and full of action.’I enjoy writing them; I hope folks enjoy reading the results.

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      Book preview

      Manae the Rower - Tony Masero

      PROLOGUE

      It is the coast of North Africa.

      A fleet of dark war galleys break the sparkling sheen of a crystalline ocean and the clear sky above is clouded by dense smoke turned brown by the remorseless sun.

      Amongst the tall palms and between the deserted temples and homes of the wealthy populating the high ground above the massive circle of harbour walls a hot wind rises. It scours down alleyways and moans through empty houses and into the lush hanging gardens with a lonely sound. All have fled leaving behind only dust and emptiness.

      The breeze from the sea drifts smoke and ash from the invader’s pillage inland to cover the entire city of Carthage. The smouldering cloud lies like a lazy blanket that turns the bright day into a sombre evening gloom inside the city. From the heights the sound below is blurred into one long indistinct clamour of uproar but below it is a diabolical scene rife with the glow of raging flames.

      Inside the high walls protecting the city, buildings burn and the wailing noise of battle echoes down the destroyed alleyways. The Roman Legions have broken through and in their wake bloody corpses and wrecked bodies lie in a gory trail along the road towards the Byrsa, the citadel centre of the city.

      The remorseless Legions push forward, the advancing wave of sweating legionaries fighting mercilessly against the last few defiant Carthaginians and their allies. It is an angry fight, the Romans know they have the city within their grasp and they are hungry for what comes after.

      In the long street leading to the central temple of Eshmun, on each side stand high six-story buildings and every floor is a last resort for the defenders, hand-to-hand fighting continues from top to bottom of the towering structures. Scipio’s Legions use captured building to rain down spear and arrow on the fierce Carthaginians defenders who sacrifice themselves bravely but to no avail. Each building captured by the Romans is given to the flames until the entire street blazes in a roaring tornado of fire.

      Only the Roman troop defectors and some survivors of the defender’s army hold the temple, nine hundred deserters who had tired of the two-year long siege and given themselves over to the cause of Carthage. Hasdrubal, the Carthaginian general had welcomed them into his fold with open arms but now the battle is lost and they face a final confrontation with their own side.

      The turncoats send out an emissary to beg for mercy but are coldly refused by the Roman General. Even their last redoubt, the temple, now burns ferociously and those defenders standing on the tall ladder of steps leading up to the temple entrance, know they have no other option left to them. It is better to make their own desperate ends than face the victorious wrath and torture of the young consul and Roman general, Scipio Aemilianus. They turn back into the flaming building leaving the massed ranks of their former comrades standing watching from behind a shield wall lined up before the temple steps. The watching cohorts bellow insults and cowardly condemnation as they bear witness to the deserters sacrificing themselves to the fire.

      Manae and his cousin Balan also watched from over the step of the sunken basement where they had found refuge.

      Balan the older of the two, had saved Manae as they fled the advancing army, pulling him from the dust and debris when a building, battered by ballista fire, had collapsed and buried the fleeing family under an avalanche of falling masonry. At eighteen years of age, Balan was a bold young man who had fought with the army until, cut off from his unit and lost, he had returned to the city to try and help his family. Fifteen-year-old Manae, at home on leave, had helped him gather as many family members as they could before shepherding them out into the crowded street in readiness to make their escape. The building when it fell came like a mountain avalanche and filled the street from side to side in an instant. It had surprised them all and only Balan and Manae had escaped with their lives. Knowing it would take an army of elephants to move the blocked street and that rescue was hopeless for those under the fall, Balan had firmly led the sobbing Manae away from the scene and now they crouched and watched after hiding in the deserted cellar behind them.

      The gathered Romans, standing in ranks before the temple, stood steady and silently unmoving as the suicides with one last gesture of defiance disappeared from view.

      Then a woman with two small children suddenly appeared. She stood on an abutment above the flames high up near the temple dome. She screamed, her words drifting in and out of the chaos below. The fiery furnace licked in a demonic boil beneath the small figures balanced on the brink, the smoke weaving like wraiths around the raving figure. Her words were curses, rants against the Carthaginian commander Hasdrubal for his surrender.

      ‘Who’s that?’ the boys heard a legionary mutter to the soldier beside him.

      ‘Hasdrubal’s wife and her kids, she’s got more balls than the old boy himself. Listen to her giving it to him.’

      Suddenly, the woman swept up the two terrified children and wild-eyed she threw them wailing into the hellhole below. Then with shouted incantations and raised arms to the ruined sky above, she too dropped. Like a winged creature with her gown rippling and floating behind her she fell and in a brief whisper was lost from sight inside the inferno.

      Fifteen-year-old Manae, who had served as a cabin boy for the once-great Carthaginian fleet, watched round-eyed until Balan grabbed the torn sleeve of his tunic and pulled him deeper into the basement.

      ‘We must get away from here, Manae,’ urged Balan. ‘The Romans will slay everybody.’

      ‘But to where?’ asked his cousin. ‘They have the city.’

      ‘Come, we will find a way.’

      Manae still wept for his lost parents as they ran through the basement and up through a broken service opening that led to a neighbouring street. His face was pale with dust and the tears streamed in lines down the whiteness of his cheeks. He made no sound though and followed his cousin with racing feet weighed down by a heavy heart.

      Balan lurched to a sudden halt and pulled Manae back behind a column as they saw four screeching women being dragged into the street by a band of looting legionaries. The soldiers were already drunk, swilling from wine skins as they beat and pushed the women before them. Behind them, they saw two soldiers despatching the women’s menfolk, throwing the civilians to their knees and brutally slashing their throats before kicking the squirming bodies away.

      The soldiers fell on the women, throwing them across slabs of fallen masonry and ripping the clothes from their bodies as they set about an orgy of rape.

      Grim faced, Balan realised their opportunity as the soldiers were distracted and he led Manae through the shadows of a crumbling arcade away from the scene.

      The couple came across skirmishes as they made their desperate escape, remaining bands of Carthaginians, overrun in the speedy advance of the Legions, fought on in solitary clashes. They saw wounded soldiers from both sides, shattered men wandering aimlessly through the ruins of the city. Those hurt and unable to move lay crying in agony and begging for water, forgotten amongst the maze of streets battered by the two-year siege. It was a hellish sight, hot and full of noise. The clash of arms and screams were lost as the catapult damaged buildings finally surrendered and collapsed in slides of stone that blocked the streets with rubble and clogging clouds of masonry dust that filled the nostrils and obliterated visibility.

      The two cousins burst through such a fog and found themselves in a clearing, a small square surrounded on all side by tall buildings. The deserted buildings, their windows empty and full of once verdant flowerpots that now hung bedraggled and dry, overlooked the struggle below. The sound of the fight echoed up through the void of the enclosed square.

      Before them stood a Roman Tribune, the remains of his ambushed troop, a contingent of five men, crouched defensively around him. Before them a party of twenty angry and blood-soaked Carthaginian hoplites, were finishing off the rest of the patrol with quick despatch. The Tribune’s second-in-command, a rough looking Optio, shrieked pitifully as a spear wielded by a Carthaginian was pressed through his entire torso. The Carthaginian warrior stood over the flailing man brutally pressing down with all his weight on the spear shaft.

      The rest of the defending Romans all showed signs of wounds and a streak of blood ran down the officer’s face as he urged his men on. The Carthaginian hoplites had the advantage and they pressed in eager for the kill, their swords ringing out against the Roman shields and armours. With a warning battle cry a party of Syrian archers appeared from the surrounding buildings and sent out a sheet of arrows that pinioned the defending Romans. Men fell wounded around the officer but he bellowed for them to rise and fight on.

      Taking a stand, he charged into the mass of Carthaginians, striking boldly to left and right, hacking at bare arms and necks. The Carthaginians fell back at his wild charge and the remaining Romans rose up to follow their commander. But the outnumbering men of Carthage outflanked the officer with his whirling blade and fell on the soldiers behind him. One by one they dropped the legionaries until it was only the panting Tribune who stood alone against the surrounding hoplites. He readied himself with his back to a wall and defiantly roared at them to come on and fight with him.

      ‘A brave man,’ whispered Balan.

      But the outcome was all too obvious and in a howling charge the Carthaginians fell on the Roman and the Tribune disappeared under the crowd of his attackers.

      A distant horn sounded a mournful wail. It was the call of a buccina, the circular horn used by the Romans to direct units on the battlefield.

      As one man the Carthaginian band turned from the fallen Tribune and looked away towards the sound.

      ‘More of them coming,’ one man snarled.

      ‘Then let’s go find them,’ bawled another, eager for the kill.

      In a rush, the party ran off in the direction of the sounding trumpet and left Balan and Manae suddenly alone with the heap of dead.

      ‘Come on,’ urged Manae. ‘Let’s go.’

      They made to move off but then Balan paused, ‘Wait,’ called Balan. ‘There is a chance for us here.’

      He turned back to where the Tribune lay in a welter of blood and knelt over him.

      ‘What are you doing?’ asked Manae. ‘We have no time for this.’

      ‘Quick,’ ordered Balan. ‘Make up a litter, we’ll use the spears and cloaks.’

      ‘Why?’ Manae asked curiously. ‘You want to save a Roman, he’s dead isn’t he?’

      ‘Dead or alive, we can use him,’ said Balan, ripping off his Carthaginian armour and leaving only the under tunic. ‘This fine fellow will get us through the Roman lines, we’ll say we’re getting him back to the physicians.’

      ‘You think it will work?’

      ‘Worth a try.’

      Quickly they lashed together a litter and rolled the Tribune onto it. The Roman groaned as they lifted him.

      ‘He still lives,’ said Manae.

      ‘All the better. Now come on let’s hurry,’ both boys heaved the litter from the ground. ‘By Tanit, the bastard’s no light weight.’

      They set off at the trot, heading through the dust-laden mist of smoke that filled the streets.

      ‘We’ll head for the coast,’ Balan panted over his shoulder. ‘Dump this character and find ourselves a boat.’

      ‘What will they do with everyone left in the city?’ asked Manae.

      Balan hunched his shoulders and loped on, ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he muttered grimly.

      They wove on through the labyrinth of cobbled streets and felt the air freshen as they neared the beach.

      ‘Not far now,’ said Balan.

      A Roman guard stepped out from the recess of a stone doorway, ‘Hold it!’ he ordered from behind a shield and levelled spear.

      ‘A wounded man,’ cried Balan, attempting to press on through.

      ‘You stand there,’ growled the soldier. Over his shoulder he shouted inside the building, ‘Sir! There’s a couple of men out here.’

      A dusty and helmetless Centurion came out of the house and brushed his way past the guard, ‘What’s amiss?’ he asked. The Centurion was a bearded man with a broad chest and a determined look to him; he raised his chin proudly as he studied the litter bearers.

      ‘We have a wounded Tribune, your honour,’ said Balan. ‘He is to go to the physicians.’

      The Centurion strode over and peered at the fallen Tribune, ‘Zeus! I know this officer,’ he barked. ‘It’s Decimus Petrus, the senator’s son. How did he fall?’

      ‘A hero’s fight, honourable sir,’ answered Balan, feigning an obsequious mode. ‘He stood alone against twenty of the enemy. Back to the wall he called defiance when all his men were slain around him.’

      The Centurion nodded sternly, ‘I would expect nothing less of him, his line is of greatness.’ He turned to the guard. ‘I want two men detailed to accompany the Tribune, see he gets safely through the lines.’

      The guard stamped a salute and hurried off and the Centurion turned back to the two hovering under the weight of the body, ‘Does he live?’ he asked.

      ‘He groaned a little while back,’ answered Manae.

      ‘Good, good. Well done you men, see he receives help as fast as you can.’ He eyed them both thoughtfully, fingers straying through his beard. ‘Who are you two exactly?’

      ‘We are men of Nubia,’ Balan answered promptly.

      ‘Allies then,’ murmured the Centurion. ‘How did you come here? I thought Masinissa and his army were elsewhere.’

      ‘We are auxiliaries, sir. Men of little importance and our lord offered us to assist the Legions.’

      The Centurion was interrupted as the guard returned with two fully equipped legionaries.

      ‘You men,’ ordered the Centurion. ‘This is the Tribune, Decimus Petrus; he is of noble family so see he reaches the hospital at full speed and without hindrance. You understand?’

      The soldiers nodded and brought themselves to attention.

      ‘Be off with you but hurry back, we have orders to sack the city. Brave Scipio wants this place razed to the ground.’

      Balan and Manae looked at each other from under lowered brows.

      ‘And see these Nubians get fed and watered,’ the Centurion ordered after them. ‘They’ve done well today.’

      After reaching the beachhead, Balan and Manae found that things were not going to be as easy as they had thought. There were military everywhere, hundreds of men swarmed over the churned bridgehead. Shouting beach masters bellowed orders at teams of men unloading supplies from the ships, others raised rows of tents and a steady stream of reserve troops marched in cohorts towards the city.

      Their guards asked direction to the hospital and the two sweating boys were urged on, the weight of the wounded man getting heavier with every step. At last they set him down in the blood soaked doorway to a giant tent. One glance inside the doorway told them the story, screaming and groaning men lay everywhere on the ground with a few white-clad physicians and their attendants scurried between the writhing figures. There

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